Untitled
by SakuraSyaoran4eva
Summary: Spawn. S6 Her sister's dead and everyone's moving on. But she can't. Just like the man who loves her sister can't. Maybe they'll find solace in each other, maybe one day they'll learn to talk. Or maybe, the fact that she's growing up, will push them apart
1. Sleepless Nights

Title: Untitled

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Eventual SpikeDawn

Early Season Six. Post-Gift.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Alot of this story was inspired by Kurt Couper's fanfiction (Damned, mainly) and SexyMermaid's story, Forbidden.

Thank you to everyone who helped me with this story (elbowface and Al) and to Kurt Couper for agreeing to beta.

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Prologue: Sleepless Nights

* * *

She could hear the rain steadily hitting the window as she lay in bed, comforted only by the fact that He was there. 

It had become routine for the both now. Every night, he would crawl through her bedroom window and just sit on the bed, leaning against the headboard and watching over her as she drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, he would be gone and she would be left wondering if he'd ever been there in the first place.

They never talked about it – it was never mentioned at all. Just like everything else they never mentioned.

'Buffy…' The name crossed her mind and she forced it away, squeezing her eyes shut and muffling a sob as a tear cascaded down her cheek. She heard the bed creak as he gently pressed his cold dead lips against hers.

She knew that no matter what she felt, the kiss was nothing more then a gesture to remind her he cared. It meant the same thing it meant last night and the twenty-eight nights before last night.

Not that she was counting; it was part of their routine.

"Goodnight, l'il bit." His rough English voice whispered into her ear and she felt more tears begin to form.

It was her fault. It was her fault her sister was dead. It was her fault He was still here, instead of having moved on.

She knew better then to think he would actually _want _to stay and care for her if he didn't have to. She was just Bu – Her little sister. The love of his life's annoying little sister. After Her death, the only reason he'd stayed was because he'd promised Her.

She heard a click, felt the familiar smell of nicotine and tobacco fill her nose and knew he'd lit up. She knew he was smoking now more for her benefit than his own.

In the morning, when she awoke and he was gone, the lingering smell of nicotine, tobacco and leather would calm her because she knew it as his scent.

It was weird, how the smell of cigarettes or alcohol instantly calmed her. She supposed it was because he was the only person she'd ever met who smoked or drank incessantly enough for her to confuse their presence with his.

"Love, I get so lost sometimes,

Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart

When I want to run away

I drive off in my car

But whichever way I go

I come back to the place you are…"

He's started reciting poetry softly now. It's because he knows I'm still awake. Knows that I need help falling asleep tonight.

"All my instincts they return

And the grand façade, so soon will burn…"

I wonder if he wrote this himself. He does, you know. Write. Sometimes, it's poetry. Sometimes, it's a song.

It's always unbearably beautiful. It makes me feel safe. It makes me wonder if he writes about me.

I know he writes about Her. I know it because sometimes he won't let me hear what he's just written.

And the only thing the two of us never talk of is Her. And the routine.

"I get so tired of working so hard for our survival

I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive…"

I decide this one is about me. It's probably not true. It's probably about Her, but I don't care. I want it to be about me.

I know it's wrong to think such things – and I know he'd hate me if he knew – but sometimes I hate her.

I hate her because even though she's dead, she's still refuses to let go of her hold on his heart.

I hate her because even though she's dead, he still loves her more.

I hear a click as a second cigarette is lighted. He's stopped speaking.

He's done now. It's over. He's not going to entertain me any longer. He wants me to sleep. So he can leave.

So I concede and listen to the rain beating against the window pains, letting the steady rhythm and the smell of nicotine, leather and all that is him comfort me.

As I struggle to fall asleep, images of her falling from the tower and plummeting to her death reign over my mind. I force myself to stifle the screams that threaten to erupt.

Screaming would break the façade. The routine. And that's not allowed.

I feel a hand began to stroke the middle of my back and know that he knows about my nightmares. Just like I know about his.

I wonder which one I'll have tonight. The one in which she dies? Or the one in which he dies?

The second one's worse. Because then I'd be truly alone.

I wonder if that's selfish. To think just about me.

I hear him sigh and feel the bed creak as he moves around.

"Sunlight's in forty-five." His quiet voice declares and I swallow, burying my face further into the pillow.

He always leaves ten minutes before sunrise. Like clockwork.

I don't want to be awake when he leaves.

I don't want to watch him leave. Don't want to watch my worst nightmare come to life.

'One sheep, two sheep, three…' I began to silently count. I've got thirty-five minutes to make sure I'm unconscious when he leaves.

'Seven sheep, eight sheep, nine…" I wonder if he knows how much this hurts.

How much… it hurts…to know… the truth…

The persistent aroma of his cigarettes belongs to me.

But the rest of him belongs to Her.

* * *

Poem excerpts taken from "In Your Eyes", a song by Peter Gabriel. Also, most of my fanfiction is on hold and will stay that way for awhile. I'm in between alot of RL crap – so this story may not be updated for great lengths of time. I'd still like to see if anyone wants it to be updated though, so leave me a review and I'll decide when to update based on that. 


	2. Unbearable Hours

Title: Untitled

Pairing: Spawn

Spoilers: Early season six and The Gift

Warnings: The rating is subject to change.

Chapter One: Unbearable Hours

Thank you to Kurt Couper who's inspired me to write this and also happens to be my beta.

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Walking home from school, she played with the clasp of her purse, buttoning it and unbuttoning it. For some reason, she avoided stepping in the puddles.

Back when she'd been alive the two of them would make a game of it; trying to jump in and splash the other before the other could.

She could remember all the fights that had occurred because of their 'game'; the older blonde screaming over how the younger brunette had ruined her new suede boots or something.

It had always been so much fun – mainly because it was _their_ thing and no one else's.

But now she wasn't even sure if she was worth playing that game anymore. Not after what she'd done…

"Puddles are for jumpin' in, you know." She jumped in surprise as the familiar voice broke into her thoughts. Spinning around, she took in his shriveled appearance.

His hair was longer now, almost curly and kind of honey-golden at the roots. She suspected he wasn't bleaching it peroxide white anymore. His once articulately painted black nails were now devoid of nail polish altogether and his ocean blue eyes were strained as if hadn't gotten minutes worth of sleep the night before.

There was silence as she turned and continued to walk home. She didn't bother to turn and check whether he was there anymore; she didn't have to.

He always followed her home whenever it was cloudy enough for him to be out. Sometimes she saw him, sometimes she didn't; but she could always feel him there.

The distinct sound of a lighter clicking and a cigarette being lighted reassured her to this and she began to talk.

"So, Janice wants me to sleepover tomorrow night. She says we can study for our biology test together. I'm not really sure if I wanna go – we never really study. Sometimes I think Janice has definition of studying mixed up with the definition of things like crank calling or talking about the new Backstreet Boys CD. I mean, not that we like, like them, or anything – they're like _old _now…" She was babbling now. She did it all the time nowadays.

It was her way of communicating with him: talking about absolutely nothing to let him know she was okay… No, to let him know she was _going _to be okay.

"…anyways have you ever noticed how everyone says that diet coke has this weird aftertaste but they still drink it anyways? I mean, it's like, why torture yourself? Janice says…"

She continued to talk about everything that was on her mind at the moment – everything except anything that actually mattered, of course.

They soon reached her house and she stopped talking, opening the door and turning to see if he'd be coming in this afternoon.

He was leaning against the tree, his usual haunt, an unlit cigarette between his teeth, a box of Marlboro Lights in his right hand and his usual silver Zippo in his left.

She remembered once asking what was so important about that particular lighter. He'd grown quiet and had then mumbled something about sentimental value.

She'd find out one day, she told herself. One day when she could convince him it was okay to talk to her again. One day when she could convince herself that it was okay to talk to him again.

He acknowledged his departure to her by turning more towards the tree and lighting his cigarette and she smiled sadly, realizing that someone was already home. He never came in when anyone other then her was home.

It was as if he didn't want anyone to know that he was still there; that he still cared.

"Dawn, honey, is that you?" Tara appeared in the living room and she smiled her smile. The fake one.

"Yeah." She turned back to wave good-bye to Spike, but he was already gone; the only tell tale signs he'd ever been there were the still burning cigarettes littering the grass beneath his tree.

Forcing the feelings of despair away, she turned back to the smiling brunette and summoned up another insincere smile, closing the door behind her and reminding herself that he'd be back soon.

He always came around at eight, claiming that his television was broken and that he couldn't miss his favorite soap operas. No one ever bothered to mention that his soaps were on at eight in the morning, rather than eight at night.

Lies were a necessity now, after all.

The other brunette began to chat away about some movie that she and her girlfriend had just rented. Dawn nodded along, the polished smile in place as she assured the woman that she too had been dying to see the Disney movie better suited for four-year-olds for weeks now.

Dawn checked the clock absently.

Four O' Clock. Four hours until he would come. Four hours of reminding herself that he'd be here soon. Four hours…

Noticing that Tara was now explaining the subtext of the movie, Dawn pried herself from her thoughts and back to the conversation.

Spike would be here in four hours.

Four hours.

Just four more hours….


End file.
